‘Give me a cigarette, darling,’ she said.
He patted his pockets and found he had left the cigarette case and lighter in the room. Not being a smoker it had not occurred to him to put them in his pocket along with the rest of Meyrick’s personal gear. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any with me.’
‘My!’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me the great Professor Meyrick has stopped smoking. Now I will believe in cancer.’
Professor!
He used the pretext of illness again. ‘The one I tried this morning tasted like straw. Maybe I will stop smoking.’ He held his hand over the table. ‘Look at those nicotine stains. Imagine what my lungs must be like.’
She shook her head in mock sorrow. ‘It’s like pulling down a national monument. To imagine Harry Meyrick without a cigarette is like trying to imagine Paris without the Eiffel Tower.’
A Nordic waitress came to the table; she looked rather like Jeanette MacDonald dressed for an appearance in White Horse Inn. Denison raised his eyebrows at his companion. ‘What will you have?’
‘The usual,’ she said indifferently, delving into her handbag.
He took refuge in a paroxysm of coughing pulling out his handkerchief and only emerging when he heard her giving the order. He waited until the waitress left before putting away the handkerchief. The woman opposite him said, ‘Harry, that’s a really bad cough. I’m not surprised you’re thinking of giving up the cancer sticks. Are you feeling all right, darling? Maybe you’d be better off in bed, after all.’
‘I’m all right,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked solicitously.
‘Perfectly sure.’
‘Spoken like the old Professor Meyrick,’ she said mockingly. ‘Always sure of everything.’
‘Don’t call me Professor,’ he said testily. It was a safe enough thing to say regardless of whether Meyrick was really a professor or whether she was pulling his leg in a heavy-handed manner. The British have never been keen on the over-use of professional titles. And it might provoke her into dropping useful information.
All he got was a light and inconsequential, ‘When on the Continent do as the Continentals do.’
He went on the attack. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘You’re so British, Harry.’ He thought he detected a cutting edge to her voice. ‘But then, of course, you would be.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Oh, come off it. There’s nobody more British than an outsider who has bored his way in. Where were you born, Harry? Somewhere in Mittel Europa?’ She suddenly looked a little ashamed. ‘I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that. I’m being bitchy, but you’re behaving a bit oddly, too.’
‘The effect of the pills. Barbiturates have never agreed with me. I have a headache.’
She opened her handbag. ‘I have aspirin.’
The waitress, Valkyrie-like, bore down on them. Denison looked at the bottles on the tray, and said, ‘I doubt if aspirin goes with beer.’ That was the last thing he would have thought of as ‘the usual’; she did not look the beery type.
She shrugged and closed the bag with a click. ‘Please yourself.’
The waitress put down two glasses, two bottles of beer and a packet of cigarettes, said something rapid and incomprehensible, and waited expectantly. Denison took out his wallet and selected a 100-kroner note. Surely two beers and a packet of cigarettes could not cost more than a hundred kroner. My God, he did not even know the value of the currency! This was like walking through a minefield blindfolded.
He was relieved when the waitress made no comment but made change from a leather bag concealed under her apron. He laid the money on the table intending to check it surreptitiously. The redhead said, ‘You’ve no need to buy my cigarettes, Harry.’
He smiled at her. ‘Be my guest,’ he said, and stretched out his hand to pour her beer.
‘You’ve given it up yourself but you’re quite prepared to pay for other people’s poison.’ She laughed. ‘Not a very moral attitude.’
‘I’m not a moral philosopher,’ he said, hoping it was true.
‘No, you’re not,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve always wondered where you stood in that general direction. What would you call yourself, Harry? Atheist? Agnostic? Humanist?’
At last he was getting something of the quality of Meyrick. Those were questions but they were leading questions, and he was quite prepared to discuss philosophy with her - a nice safe subject. ‘Not an atheist,’ he said. ‘It’s always seemed to me that to believe in the non-existence of something is somewhat harder than to believe in its existence. I’d put myself down as an agnostic - one of the “don’t know” majority. And that doesn’t conflict with humanism.’
He fingered the notes and coins on the table, counted them mentally, subtracted the price of two beers based on what he had paid for a beer in the hotel, and arrived at the price of a packet of cigarettes. Roughly, that is. He had an idea that the price of a beer in a luxury hotel would be far higher than in an open-air café.
‘I went to church last Sunday,’ she said pensively. ‘To the English church - you know - the one on Møllergata.’ He nodded as though he did know. ‘I didn’t get much out of it. I think next time I’ll try the American church.’ She frowned. ‘Where is the American church, Harry?’
He had to say something, so he took a chance. ‘Isn’t it near the Embassy?’
Her brow cleared. ‘Of course. Between Bygdøy Alle and Drammens Veien. It’s funny, isn’t it? The American church being practically next door to the British Embassy. You’d expect it to be near the American Embassy.’
He gulped. ‘Yes, you would,’ he said, and forbore to mention that that was what he had meant. Even a quasitheological conversation was strewn with pitfalls. He had to get out of this before he really dropped a clanger.
And an alarming suspicion had just sprung to mind, fully armed and spiky. Whoever had planted him in that hotel room and provided him with money and the means to provide all the necessities of life - and a lot of the luxuries, too - was unlikely to leave him unobserved. Someone would be keeping tabs on him, otherwise the whole operation was a nonsense. Could it be this redhead who apparently had qualms about her immortal soul? What could be better than to plant someone right next to him for closer observation?
She opened the packet of cigarettes and offered him one. ‘You’re sure you won’t?’
He shook his head. ‘Quite sure.’
‘It must be marvellous to have will power.’
He wanted peace and not this continuous exploration of a maze where every corner turned could be more dangerous than the last. He started to cough again, and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a muffled voice. ‘I think you’re right; I’d be better off in bed. Do you mind if I leave you?’
‘Of course not.’ Her voice was filled with concern. ‘Do you want a doctor?’
‘That’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right tomorrow - I know how these turns take me.’ He stood up and she also rose. ‘Don’t bother to come with me. The hotel is only across the road.’
He picked up the packet and thrust the maps back into it, and put the handkerchief into his pocket. She looked down at his feet. ‘You’ve dropped something,’ she said, and stooped to pick it up. ‘Why, it’s a Spiralen Doll.’
‘A what?’ he asked incautiously. It must have been pulled from his pocket when he took out the handkerchief.
She regarded him oddly. ‘You pointed these out at the Spiralen when we were there last week. You laughed at them and called them tourist junk. Don’t you remember?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s just this damned headache.’
She laughed. ‘I didn’t expect to see you carrying one. You didn’t buy this when we were there - where did you get it?’
He told the truth. ‘I found it in the car I hired.’
‘You can’t trust anyone to do a good job these days,’ she said, smiling
. ‘Those cars are supposed to be cleaned and checked.’ She held it out. ‘Do you want it?’
‘I may be a bit light-headed,’ he said, ‘but I think I do.’ He took it from her. ‘I’ll be going now.’
‘Have a hot toddy and a good night’s sleep,’ she advised. ‘And ring me as soon as you’re better.’
That would be difficult, to say the least, with neither telephone number nor name. ‘Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be well enough to have dinner. I promise not to stand you up again.’
‘I’ll ring you tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Promise,’ he insisted, not wanting to lose her.
‘Promise.’
He put the rope doll into his pocket and left her with a wave, and went out of the garden, across the road and into the hotel, feeling relieved that he was well out of a difficult situation. Information, he thought, as he walked across the hotel lobby; that’s what I need - I’m hamstrung without it.
He paused at the porter’s desk and the porter looked up with a quick smile. ‘Your key, sir?’ He swung around and unhooked it.
On impulse Denison held out the doll. ‘What’s that?’
The porter’s smile broadened. ‘That’s a Spiralen Doll, sir.’
‘Where does it come from?’
‘From the Spiralen, sir - in Drammen. If you’re interested, I have a pamphlet.’
‘I’m very much interested,’ said Denison.
The porter looked through papers on a shelf and came up with a leaflet printed in blue ink. ‘You must be an engineer, sir.’
Denison did not know what the hell Meyrick was. ‘It’s in my general field of interest,’ he said guardedly, took the key and the leaflet, and walked towards the lifts. He did not notice the man who had been hovering behind him and who regarded him speculatively until the lift door closed.
Once in his room Denison tossed the maps and the leaflet on to the dressing-table and picked up the telephone. ‘I’d like to make a long distance call, please - to England.’ He took out his wallet.
‘What is the number, sir?’
‘There’s a little difficulty about that. I don’t have a number - only an address.’ He opened the wallet with one hand and extracted one of Meyrick’s cards.
The telephonist was dubious. ‘That may take some time, sir.’
‘It doesn’t matter - I’ll be in my room for the rest of the day.’
‘What is the address sir?’
Denison said clearly, ‘Lippscott House, near Brackley, Buckinghamshire, England.’ He repeated it three times to make sure it had got across.
‘And the name?’
Denison opened his mouth and then closed it, having suddenly acquired a dazed look. He would appear to be a damned fool if he gave the name of Meyrick - no one in his right mind rings up himself, especially after having admitted he did not know his own telephone number. He swallowed, and said shortly, ‘The name is not known.’
The telephone sighed in his ear. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
Denison put down the telephone and settled in a chair to find out about the Spiralen. The front of the leaflet was headed: DRAMMEN. There was an illustration of a Spiralen Doll which did not look any better for being printed in blue. The leaflet was in four languages.
The Spiralen was described as being ‘a truly unique attraction, as well as a superb piece of engineering.’ Apparently there had been a quarry at the foot of Bragernesasen, a hill near Drammen, which had become an eyesore until the City Fathers decided to do something about it. Instead of quarrying the face of the hill the operation had been extended into the interior.
A tunnel had been driven into the hill, thirty feet wide, fifteen feet high and a mile long. But not in a straight line. It turned back on itself six complete times in a spiral drilled into the mountain, climbing five hundred feet until it came out on top of Bragernesasen where the Spiraltoppen Restaurant was open all the year round. The views were said to be excellent.
Denison picked up the doll; its body was formed of six complete turns of rope. He grinned weakly. Consultation of the maps revealed that Drammen was a small town forty kilometres west of Oslo. That would be a nice morning drive, and he could get back in the afternoon well in time for any call from the redhead. It was not much to go on, but it was all he had.
He spent the rest of the afternoon searching through Meyrick’s possessions but found nothing that could be said to be a clue. He ordered dinner to be sent to his room because he suspected that the hotel restaurant might be full of unexploded human mines like the redhead he had met, and there was a limit to what he could get away with.
The telephone call came when he was half-way through dinner. There were clicks and crackles and a distant voice said, ‘Dr Meyrick’s residence.’
Doctor!
‘I’d like to speak to Dr Meyrick.’
‘I’m sorry, sir; but Dr Meyrick is not at home.’
‘Have you any idea where I can find him?’
‘He is out of the country at the moment, sir.’
‘Oh! Have you any idea where?’
There was a pause. ‘I believe he is travelling in Scandinavia, sir.’
This was not getting anywhere at all. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘This is Andrews - Dr Meyrick’s personal servant. Would you like to leave a message, sir?’
‘Do you recognize my voice, Andrews?’ asked Denison.
A pause. ‘It’s a bad line.’ Another pause. ‘I don’t believe in guessing games on the telephone, sir.’
‘All right,’ said Denison. ‘When you see Dr Meyrick will you tell him that Giles Denison called, and I’ll be getting in touch with him as soon as possible. Got that?’
‘Giles Denison. Yes, Mr Denison.’
‘When is Dr Meyrick expected home?’
‘I really couldn’t say, Mr Denison.’
‘Thank you, Mr Andrews.’
Denison put down the telephone. He felt depressed.
FOUR
He slept poorly that night. His sleep was plagued with dreams which he did not remember clearly during the few times he was jerked into wakefulness but which he knew were full of monstrous and fearful figures which threatened him. In the early hours of the morning he fell into a heavy sleep which deadened senses and when he woke he felt heavy and listless.
He got up tiredly and twitched aside the window curtain to find that the weather had changed; the sky was a dull grey and the pavements were wet and a fine drizzle filled the air. The outdoor café in the gardens opposite would not be doing much business that day.
He rang down for breakfast and then had a shower, finishing with needle jets of cold water in an attempt to whip some enthusiasm into his suddenly heavy body and, to a degree, he succeeded. When the floor waitress came in with his breakfast he had dressed in trousers and white polonecked sweater and was combing his hair before the bathroom mirror. Incredibly enough, he was whistling in spite of having Meyrick’s face before him.
The food helped, too, although it was unfamiliar and a long way from an English breakfast. He rejected the raw, marinated herring and settled for a boiled egg, bread and marmalade and coffee. After breakfast he checked the weather again and then selected a jacket and a short topcoat from the wardrobe. He also found a thin, zippered leather satchel into which he put the maps and the Spiralen leaflet which had a street plan of Drammen on the back. Then he went down to the car. It was exactly nine o’clock.
It was not easy getting out of town. The car was bigger and more powerful than those he had been accustomed to driving and he had to keep to what was to him the wrong side of the road in a strange city in early rush-hour traffic. Three times he missed signs and took wrong turnings. The first time he did this he cruised on and got hopelessly lost and had to retrace his path laboriously. Thereafter when he missed a turn he reversed immediately so as not to lose his way again.
He was quite unaware of the man following him in the Swedish Volvo. De
nison’s erratic course across the city of Oslo was causing him a lot of trouble, especially when Denison did his quick and unexpected reversals. The man, whose name was Armstrong, swore freely and frequently, and his language became indescribable when the drizzle intensified into a downpour of heavy driving rain.
Denison eventually got out of the centre of the city and on to a six-lane highway, three lanes each way. The windscreen wipers had to work hard to cope with the rain, but it was better when he fiddled with a switch and discovered they had two speeds. Resolutely he stuck to the centre lane, reassured from time to time by the name DRAMMEN which appeared on overhead gantries.
To his left was the sea, the deeply penetrating arm of Oslofjord, but then the road veered away and headed inland. Presently the rain stopped, although no sun appeared, and he even began to enjoy himself, having got command of the unfamiliar car. And suddenly he was in Drammen, where he parked and studied the plan on the back of the leaflet.
In spite of the plan he missed the narrow turning to the right and had to carry on for some way before he found an opportunity to reverse the car, but eventually he drove up to the entrance of the tunnel where he stopped to pay the two-kroner charge.
He put the car into gear and moved forward slowly. At first the tunnel was straight, and then it began to climb, turning to the left. There was dim illumination but he switched on his headlights in the dipped position and saw the reflection from the wetness of the rough stone wall. The gradient was regular, as was the radius of the spiral, and by the time he came to a board marked 1 he had got the hang of it. All he had to do was to keep the wheel at a fixed lock to correspond with the radius of the spiral and grind upwards in low gear.
All the same, it was quite an experience - driving upwards through the middle of a mountain. Just after he passed level 3 a car passed him going downwards and momentarily blinded him, but that was all the trouble he had. He took the precaution of steering nearer to the outer curve and closer to the wall.
The Tightrope Men / The Enemy Page 3